BBCSHThe Hobbit 'Bilbo Baggins and The Curious Case of the Desirous D
by tigersilver
Summary: In which Smaug suffers a personality transplant wherein His Majestic Terrifyingness is replaced by two parts fuzzy duckling and one part Sherlock Holmes and Bilbo Baggins, the unsuspecting object of Smaug's newly discovered affections, exhibits a great deal of Watsonian attitude when placed under the slit-eyed scope of such draconian devotions.
1. Rescue!

BBCSH/The Hobbit 'Bilbo Baggins and The Curious Case of the Desirous Dragon'

Author: tigersilver

Pairing Smaug-Sherlock/Bilbo-John

Rating: NC-17 eventually

Word Count: 2,400

Warnings/Summary: In which Smaug suffers a personality transplant wherein His Majestic Terrifyingness is replaced by two parts fuzzy duckling and one part Sherlock Holmes and Bilbo Baggins, the unsuspecting object of Smaug's newly discovered affections, exhibits a great deal of Watsonian attitude when placed under the slit-eyed scope of such draconian devotions. Also? Mindboggling transformative powers that pay absolutely no heed to mass conservation, interspecies sexual shenanigans, schmoop, flangst, a cartload of swooping about and fleeing pursuers of all ilks, plus assorted other magical stuff as well. My serialized take on Smauglock, begun on a whimsy, and please make of it as you will and be not too, too harsh, okay? Rated 'W' for WIP and later on in the tale rated 'NC-17', for aforesaid shenanigans, sexual and magical. _BBC Sherlock_ crossover with _The Hobbit_, obviously.

* * *

"I am…Death!"

Frightened and oddly annoyed, Bilbo curses under his breath as the dragon flies off into the distance but what comes out of his mouth is no rhetorical question: "What have we _done_?"

The hobbit means more to ask 'What have _I_ done?' but it's quite clear, really, what he's done. Doom-on-Wings has a temper to match the sheer bulk of him and is a jealous giant twat besides and now there's a whole village at risk of feeling Smaug's monumental snit close-range and very personally.

"That bloody great idiot! What _now_?"

Bilbo is frantic, peering this way and that, seeking an exit. How best to make his way down to the floating town, see if he can somehow intervene? He rushes this way and that, ignoring the puzzled queries and concerned glances of his dwarven companions, one thought ringing in his head only:

How to stop a beast a hundred times larger than he from wreaking havoc on a host of innocents?

The Ring! Oh, that's it! The Ring will get him safely out of Smaug's Lair undetected. Gasping a sigh of relief, he slips it on and just as deftly slips down into the tunnels and byways below, seeking unerringly the hidden entrance into the Mountain. Now, if Eru smiles, he'll be able to make the village in time.

It's when halfway down the mountain, scrabbling and sliding on scree, bruising kneecaps and scraping even the pads of his large feet that Bilbo hears it—the great shriek, the eldritch howl. Gazing up, startled, he sees a huge writhing shape wrestling to stay aloft, clearly hampered by the enormous black metal shaft piercing his heaving chest. The dragon's twisting belly and flexing form gleam in the fires edging the floating town and the cold, clear light of the full moon. Roar after roar echoes down the valley as the dragon descends, flapping suddenly ungainly wings about him and keening most piteously, until with a final burst of brilliantine flame Smaug disappears from Bilbo's view somewhere farther down the mountain.

Bilbo calls to mind the unfamiliar topography, hurriedly plotting the best possible route to where Smaug was last seen, flailing and possibly fatally wounded. The marshes! Smaug has fallen to rest in the great expanse of marshes, clear on the opposing side of the valley!

It takes Bilbo all of the remaining night and until dawn's first rays to find him.

"Oh good-oh, still breathing!" he exclaims, rushing heedless up the curled-up bulk of Smaug and patting stubby hands away at the gentle rise and fall of the dragon's thorax. "You pusillanimous lout, what were you thinking, flying off like that and trying to kill people?" It's dangerous as Hell afire to fuss over an injured dragon of uncertain temper and Bilbo knows it, but somehow that's not important.

"Halfling?" The dragon arouses himself, lifting his huge chin an inch off the marshy ground and blinking somewhat hazily down at Bilbo. "No. _Hobbit_."

"Yes, me, hobbit," Bilbo snaps back. "We introduced ourselves earlier, remember? Oooh! You're bleeding like a stuck pig!"

Gushes of blood aside, what's important is that this whole disaster is somehow his fault, his burden to bear, and he must make amends. That it's imperative to make amends toward a beast who likely harbors no sympathy for one footsore and repentant Hobbit makes no never mind. Bilbo is responsible for bruising the creature's heart in some way and that is more than enough cause to be reckless.

"But first, what have they done to you, you great git? That's no Man-made arrow!"

It's a low, low rumble that gives Bilbo pause as he examines the shaft of metal stuck shallowly into the one bare patch on the dragon's impervious hide. A dangerous rumble which would scare away many a fellow made of lesser material than Bilbo Baggins.

"Now, now, don't be that way. I'm only just taking a gander at it," Bilbo cautions Smaug, trying to be as soothing as he can under the circumstances. "Hmm…not too, too bad."

A scale is missing; has been for quite some time, apparently, so old wound there, but the problem is that the arrow is perilously near the creature's heart. Fortunately the tip of it is only barely dug in; a shallow wound, then, Bilbo concludes.

"You," the dragon murmurs, shifting slightly under Bilbo's touch, "you have come to me in my failure. Why is that, Hobbit? To taunt me again?"

"You," Bilbo shoots back shortly, gingerly laying a second hand on the black metal and jiggling it slightly, testing for its give and heft, "may be Death but you're also a prize idiot. Come on, Smaug, did you not consider that the Men might have weapons of their own? They're hardly about to take on a destructive force like you without something dire for dragons tucked up their raggedy sleeves! Now lay still and shut it. I think I can pull this out, if only you'd let me at it—"

"_Why_?" Smaug demands, interrupting insistently. "Why would you? You have made it more than clear you despise me, Hobbit. You chose that—that scum of a Dwarf Kingling over me, did you not? You should have no care if I live or die, little one."

"Look, that's not important now, Your High-and-Mightiness," Bilbo snaps. "And of course I care! Just—just give me a moment, will you? I think I can save your life here—unless you'd rather I didn't?"

"Still—" the dragon persists, scowling. "I don't understand it, Hobbit, and I _desire_ to always underst—**ARRRRRGGH**!"

"Told you to shut it, didn't !? There! It's out."

With a rude yank and twist Bilbo manages to extract the arrow's tip from the tender flesh exposed by the missing scale. He casts it aside immediately, his gaze on the hole gaping crudely the nasty death lance has left behind it.

"Oh, shite!" The hobbit stumbles back and dances away, stepping ably out of reach as the dragon's blood spurts from the wound and gushes steaming and dangerously hot down the expanse of gleaming natural armour below the one unsheathed gap. "Mordor's Minions!" Bilbo exclaims, eyeing the pooling blood warily. "I'd forgot about that! S'truth!"

"What …what?" the dragon mutters weakly, struggling to twist his great snaky neck about and peer down himself. "Hmm?" The sight of blood doesn't seem to bother Smaug particularly much, oddly as that is. Bilbo stares at him, aghast. "What did you…did you—oh. Ah. That."

"Yes, that! Your blood's poisonous, dimwit!" Bilbo bursts out, thrusting an accusing finger at a bemused Smaug. "Which any respectable dragon should be well aware of already and know to warn his friends in advance! And there _you _are, practically biting the hand that's helping you, you great ninny! Do watch where you're bleeding!"

"Oh….oh, sorry…all apologies….hmmm. I am…I find I am, hmm...suddenly…quite weary." Smaug's rumble trails off into a heaving sigh as he slips into a form of draconian insensibility. "Hmmmm..."

"Oh thank the stars above for that small favour, at least, " Bilbo grumbles, scrambling his way around the unconscious dragon's lax form and turning his eyes to the shining marshes. "Driving me mad, you were, what with the questions! Bloody stupid dragon! As if that mattered _now_."

The rising sun turns Bilbo's peaceful surrounds seemingly afire, brilliant with reflected light spreading over the waters interspersed with tufts of weedy growth and grasses. Which is a welcome thing but also a bother, given it leaves Bilbo squinting and glaring about the marshy countryside.

"Now, feverfew, I need feverfew. Mum always said feverfew for a wound. Where, oh where shall I find it out here, in this desolate place?"

* * *

It's several hours after, rising fast on an overcast midmorning, and still the Men of the floating village have yet to detect the snoring lump that is a haphazardly patched-up Smaug and the much smaller, somewhat bedraggled Hobbit fussing now and again over the makeshift bandage he's stuck to the dragon's chest. Oddly enough, nor have the band of Dwarves come seeking for Bilbo and for that Bilbo is desperately grateful. He has quite enough to accomplish, ta very much, and confrontations with irate Men or puzzled Dwarves are not what he needs at the moment, especially as he is already anticipating the todo which will inevitably occur when his recalcitrant patient awakes. A sleepless night and a highly aggravating morning's efforts have done little to settle the Hobbit's temper.

When Smaug does deign to awake, Bilbo decides, at least he'll be well up to set down any furious pouting on his part, the silly serpent!

Moreover, Bilbo's had to sacrifice the sleeves of his shirt in order to make a poultice sufficiently large enough to slow the sluggish bleeding from Smaug's wound down to a halt. It's quite enough to almost make him regret chasing after the great beastie and trying to aid him—almost. Bilbo had quite liked that shirt, despite the fact it was a hand-me-down from the Men and a bit more than too large for a hobbit. Whatever; he decides firmly he's not ruining his coat for the sake of a pesky dragon. That's carefully set aside, well away from the traces of dragons' blood staining the tufts and grasses.

"Ruddy idiot," Bilbo mutters after some considerable while of waiting about, bored nearly to tears, fretting more than a little and thus idly kicking a hard heel against one of curved claws below him. "Snoring away like the great lump you are. What am I ever to do with you?"

He shifts his arse on the nubbly knuckles beneath it, ruing the fact dragons didn't seem to have much extraneous padding. Further, it's none too warm a day when one is clad only in one's waistcoat, vest and shirtsleeves, especially when the shirt sleeves themselves are torn away. Bilbo grimaces, unsure that his decision to take advantage of the dragon's natural body heat to keep himself warm was a wise one. Not that perching on a tight-clutched claw is in any way comfortable but it does beat planting his arse on the damp cold ground. "You do know, don't you? They are going to come looking soon, I'm certain of it, and we cannot be found here. They'll be sure to finish you off in a winking and I don't see as how I'll be able to stop them."

"Hardly." One great slitted eye snaps open suddenly, glaring at Bilbo dead square. "But you. You are still here, Hobbit. And you have not yet answered my question."

"What question?" Bilbo hops off the claw he's borrowed and stands pat directly before the dragon's snout, crossing his arms belligerently before him. Smaug is recipient of a narrow-eyed glare and a skeptical snort. "_I_ think it's more to the point to speak of ways and means of transporting you, Smaug. You're a sitting duck right now and it's only a matter of ti—"

"I can fly, Hobbit, never fear," Smaug sneers at Bilbo. "And further, I am well able to carry your insignificant self to a place of safety. Should I wish to."

"Should you wish to?" Bilbo snorts indignantly and much more loudly. "After all I've done for y—"

"That's the question," Smaug says again, his patience clearly very thin. "And it is tedious of you in the extreme to force me to continue asking it of you. Why, little one, have you come and why have you tended me? Tell me your reasons now and no more delay!"

"Well!" Bilbo flaps his hands up, beseeching the dull grey skies for some patience of his own. "Surely it's obvious, even to you?"

"No, not," Smaug grinds his teeth at Bilbo, speaking through them. His deep voice sounds very strange when constrained so. "Explicate," he orders. Bilbo glares.

"Very well, if you need it spelt out. It's my fault, isn't it?" he says, slumping his shoulders a little. "Setting you off like that—getting you wounded, even. I mean, you're not all that bad, really, if one doesn't dwell overmuch on your past, Smaug. Or...or that little 'I am Death' speech of yours. Bit over the top, _I'd_ say."

"Not…all that bad?" the dragon echoes, looking quite taken aback. "You don't say."

"And I don't care to dwell, really; it's not my nature," Bilbo goes on, shrugging philosophically. "I mean, you didn't try to kill me too, too many times back there in the mountain and it was perfectly understandable you'd want to, now I think about it. Hording things and all, and then me stealing things—only natural of you. Besides, you were amusing to talk with, earlier. Witty. _And_, you were definitely jealous of my friend Thorin—"

"Jealous! I was not!" Smaug harrumphs, deeply affronted. "Bite your tongue, tiny man!"

"_Hobbit_. I thought we established that. And of course you were," Bilbo replies, cocking his chin at the furious Smaug. "It was plain as the nose your face, Smaug. Though there's absolutely no reason to be. Thorin is only a good friend of mine and—"

"Good _friend_!? _That_ pompous git?"

"A good friend," Bilbo repeated pointedly, "and someone else in need of my assistance. You were just caught in the midst, is all. Not your fault, really. So why shouldn't I help you, too? 'Specially when you need me to."

"Ahem," the dragon coughs, twin curls of smoke coiling their way up into the chill moist air. "As to that. Dragon, here. Not exactly welcome amongst you other dwellers of Middle Earth, usually, us dragons. And hardly the fodder for friendship, Hobbit. Though far be it from me to dissuade you of your strange fancies. As they have been of some use to me."

"What can I say?" Bilbo grins when the dragon cocks a claw at the makeshift bandage, rearing up to do so. "I'm easy, yeah? What of it. Now, come along with you, lazy bones. We have to be on our way or they'll find us. And we can't very well simply return to the mountain. That would be suicide, spot on."

"Meh-hauuunghh! Heh-heh-heh! Hil-_arious_!"

Smaug's reptilian features wrinkle, rumple and twist as he rises to all fours at last. Bilbo stares at him, all agog, for there's this very funny sound he's hearing and it originates deep within the dragon's damaged chest. It sounds...it sounds vaguely like?

"Erm? What?"

"You!" Smaug barely stifles another weird outburst and bares all his teeth at Bilbo doing so. "And that—that is my amusement, my little friend," he goes on, tossing a haughty head at a passing march bird. "My very own true laughter, showing itself, and it's a rare, rare thing to have inspired it, I must advise you. Few have ever managed it before—_and_ survived to tell the tale. Come, climb aboard, will you? We have wasted far too much time here, just as you've said. Needs must be off, so don't dawdle about, get on me! I'm flying in a moment and I shan't wait!"

"Wait!" Bilbo exclaims, even as he's seeking footholds and handholds and scrambling his way up to sit between the dragon's great shoulders. "No, _do_ wait! Where—where is it we're going?"

"My _real_ home, of course," Smaug replies smugly and carelessly, the wind nearly carrying away his reply as the first few beats of two enormous wings propel them both up and away. "You surely don't believe a dragon of my stature has only the one horde, do you?" he adds slyly, peeping back at Bilbo's startled face and dropped jaw. "For that _would _be a very foolish fancy indeed, my little friend."

* * *

TBC


	2. Lair!

"Right, where _are_ we? As it's fucking cold here, Smaug."

"North, obviously. Where it_ is_ cold," Smaug rumbles, twitching the tip of his tail at Bilbo. "Don't be stupid, not more than you can help. I'll start a fire soon enough, little one, once we are inside my lair."

The place where they've landed is populous with pine trees and boulders. That's about all it's got going for it, boulders and pine trees. It's high up, and terribly isolated, with a dragon's eye view over an emptied-out, fire-scarred valley below. Smaug shoulders aside the shrubby growth brushing up against what looks to be like a blank slant of a sheered granite rock face and presses his snout up against it, sniffing eagerly. "Oh, here," he murmurs, "that's it." Little puffs of smoke trail up from his flared nostrils.

"Is that?" Curious, Bilbo surges forward to the edge of the roughly flattened area, peering out hopefully, his coat no barrier against the constant buffeting winds. "Oi, Smaug! Is that a village I spy, down there?" He shivers; it is far from balmy at this latitude.

"No," Smaug replies flatly, turning to glance disapprovingly over his massive hump of a shoulder. He shrugs one wing, nearly tipping the inquisitive Hobbit over the edge. "Not any more, at least. Menfolk! They fled ages ago, the idiots. All of them vastly frightened of the terribly fearsome dragon, la-di-dah!" He sing-songs the last, shrugging and rolling his great slitted eyeballs about in an excruciatingly odd form of draconian scorn. "Perhaps you know how it always goes, Hobbit, when Men meet Dragons? 'Round and 'round all the miserable little sacks of flesh go, scarpering away from the terrible scourge!"

"Er? What?" It quite sets a startled Bilbo back on his heels, the sight of a terrifying dragon in a tiff over a few villagers fleeing him. "Um…? _You_ frightened them away, then? What, by dint of singing nonsense at them? Fancy that."

"Fancy," Smaug echoes urbanely, one reptilian brow twitching in irritation. "And no, it wasn't my singing voice per se, wee Thief. Though that is naught to sneeze at."

"'_Wee_'!" Bilbo exclaims, hopping from one foot to the other and scowling. "I'm a _Hobbit_, you great git! Perfectly in proportion for my kind!"

"Yes, _short_." Smaug nods righteously. "'Wee'—as I've just said. And no doubt," Smaug adds sourly, shoving a crooked claw into a barely visible scar in the granite. "Those silly Men were as equally foreshortened of temper as you Hobbits appear to be." He twists it about, jabbing away till a resounding 'click ' is heard and a panel appears in the rock. "No, no. Likely it was some fribble or t'other, some habit of mine they dared find objectionable, those Men. Which is ridiculous, as I didn't even eat them—only their cattle and sheep!"

"Oh, I see. Only just their cattle and sheep, then," Bilbo echoes faintly, edging forward to peer past the bulk of oblivious monster fiddling away at a newly visible doorway, revealed to be one of gigantic proportions. "Hmm. You're a bit clueless, aren't you? Oh! Where does that lead to, Your Most Amazing Incognizance?"

"Bah! My foyer, obviously. What, did you think I was a compleat savage?" Smaug snorts. "All proper lairs possess a civilized area of entry, little one. And _I _don't know more and certainly don't care _now_ about those damnable villagers, either. Boring! They were useless, anyway, the lot of them, cluttering up the landscape._ I_ certainly had no use for them, nor they me. Now!" A scraping noise resounds, the sound of a massive amount of stone shifting, and Smaug smiles fully at Bilbo: a smug dragon's grin, all teeth, barely any lip, and with a hint of dozing flame tucked away at the very back end of it. "Through here, my wee friend. And hurry. I grow weary of standing about on my own stoop, chattering on and on of such tedious topics as _Men_."

On that demanding note, a huge cloud of stale air comes rushing out the massive doorway, enveloping both Hobbit and Dragon in a shower of dust and floating cobwebs.

"Dearie me!" Bilbo does sneeze…and sneezes, _and_ sneezes! "Pa-pardon!" He stumbles forward, rubbing at his reddened eyes and itchy face. The initial corridor is huge, of course. Dragon-shaped and not terribly well kempt, but very grand all the same. "Dusty!" the hobbit mumbles, not at all caring he remarked on the obvious and trying not to stare too hard or too long at the gem-encrusted walls and the intricately crafted mosaic flooring as he goes. "Erm. Exactly _how_ long has it been, now? Since you were at home, Smaug."

"Oh…hmmm?" Smaug, slithering his way forward, leading the way down a host of intertwining passages, hums loudly in thought, the brush of his neatly folded up wing joints now and again scraping along an array of differently sized ceilings. "No idea." Bilbo ducks nimbly after, shaking the resultant cascades of stone dust out of his rumpled curls with a series of grimaces. "At least a century, maybe more? Hmm…it is a bit of a mess in here, isn't it? I am afraid my housekeeper may've expired in the interim—"

"Hoo-hoo!"

"Oh, hullo!" Bilbo halts in his tracks, startled to encounter what seems to be a wizened old Elf woman peering inquisitively at them from the shelter of a recessed doorway. "And who might _you_ be?"

But the ancient Elf lady ignores Bilbo completely, pattering forward to flap a wrinkled hand at the dragon.

"Hoo-_hoo_! Smaug, is that _you_?"


	3. Domestic!

"Explain yourself, Dragon," the Elf lady snaps, slamming a tea tray down upon the occasional table parked between two normal sized armchairs set before a tiny hearth carved into the wall. Smaug pointedly turns his giant head away, lazily poking at the small fire glowing therer with one adamantine claw tip. "You owe it me, really you do. All those years away, without a single word!"

"No."

"Don't 'no' me, young Smaug," the Elf replies, a steely glint in her eye as she pours out and hands off to Bilbo a dainty cup-and-saucer. "Oh, yes! Sugar, dearie? Cream?" She smiles at him, all trace of her momentary snappishness at Smaug wiped away. "Biccy? Chocolate dipped, very lovely."

"Just a wee splash, ta," Bilbo nods, gratefully accepting the offering, "and yes, please—to both the sugar and the biscuit. I'm afraid my stomach's on its way to eating my liver." He pulls a face when his much-abused guts choose to rumble in agreement.

"Oh, dear me!" The Lady titters and nods toward the other open armchair, seating herself as she goes. "Better to sit, then, Mister Hobbit, before you fall off your feet."

Without missing a beat, she turns back to the dragon, who's visibly sulking, eyes very narrow and slitted. "Now, listen here, _do_ be reasonable. You can hardly expect to come dashing back home without a single word of warning or explanation after all that time and then be absolved of it all—I was concerned for you, Smaug! Terribly so, thank you!"

"Bah," sniffs the dragon, producing an acrid stream of smoke on the exhale. "Concern is a plebeian and pointless practice. I am _Dragon_, Elf." He shakes his wings out just enough to show off their gleam and snaps his teeth over the 'Elf', nearly severing the single syllable in twain. "Your silly concern would better spent on someone other than me, as I've no need of it. Besides, I owe you naught else. **WE** have ourselves a bargain, that's all. A simple business proposition. Concern is entirely unnecessary."

"Er...aren't you two friends, then?" Bilbo asks nervously, but neither seems to hear him. The Elf woman purses her painted lips and looks faintly wounded instead.

"Smaug!" she cries.

"BAH! BAH! **BAH**!" Smaug roars, glaring. "Cease nattering, Madame! This Lair shall not fall even if I never return to it!"

"That!" huff the Elf woman. "Is not the point, Smaug! Bother you and your temper!"

"Well," Bilbo murmurs, balancing his perfectly prepared cuppa on his knee and eyeing the remains of the biscuit tray as opposed to continuing to gawk rudely at Elf and Dragon—oh, and how long _has_ it been since he's eaten a proper meal? he wonders. Too long a while, that's for certain. Hobbits are a hardy race but they do require their proper noshes. "Hmm. Isn't this just cozy, then? I wonder...is there any more to ea—"

This catches the Elf lady's attention, at least. She looks to him. "Oh. What, dear? Hungry still?"

"Um?" Why,yes, it's true. Bilbo's feeling peckish yet and a slight bit woozy. He blinks at the Lady with some confusion. A proper rest has also been a scarce commodity recently, owing to the dire needs of one increasingly crotchety dragon. And he really can't seem to help but tire of it. But there's something else...something not right, bothering away at Bilbo. "Tell me, do you two often argue like this? I can't think it makes for a comfortable atmosphere. 'Specially as you obviously do care for the Great Git." Bilbo does have the courtesy to lower his voice, leaning forward so as to keep confidence. "At least, looks that way to me."

"Shh!" the Elf lady hushes him despite that. "It's none of your concern, Hobbit, but I will tell you this. This is just my Smaug, being his usual silly. He's a tetchy one, I admit, but a good soul nonetheless. Oh, and do eat the remainder of those biscuits up, won't you? Plenty more where they came from. You've gone wan, dearie. A bit green, even."

"Oh, much obliged, I'm sure." Blinking woozily, Bilbo wobbles his head towards the direction of the fortunately subsided Dragon. Smaug's tapping the claws of one paw upon the pavers in a very irritating manner but at least has stopped outright roaring. He may be pouting; it's hard to discern when one's visage is so...very...scaly. "But. Ah? You're sure you're all right, Madame? Anything I can do for you?"

"I'm certain," the Elf replies briskly. "As soon as this great lump returns to his senses and deigns explain himself, I'll be just dandy. Right as rain, Hobbit."

"Erm…okay?" Bilbo peeps at Smaug warily over the brim of his tea cup; the dragon is lashing the tip of his tail and gritting his great teeth, a pained expression fully etched upon his reptilian features. But, yet? Bilbo lets it be, eyes turned back to the biscuits and tea pot. "...If you say so."

"I _do,_ dearie. More tea?"

"This," remarks the Dragon in a low rumble, right in the midst of Bilbo's happy 'Oh. Oh! Yes, please!'. "_**This**_."

It is an intonation pregnant with portent.

"Hmm?" Both Elf and Hobbit glance over curiously, intrigued. "Smaug, dear?" The Elf raises a pencil-thin eyebrow. Bilbo smiles uncertainly.

"IS. Bosh **AND** poppycock!" Smaug shouts, sitting back upon his haunches and crossing his short forearms across his scaly chest as much as he's able. He glowers down at Elf and Hobbit both, sneering. He's a curious habit of intonance, Bilbo has notices, one Smaug employs with great precision, as if to flay any potential attacker before they even come nigh. It makes normal conversation with him quite...odd. Almost dangerous. "I _tell_ you, you interfering old _biddy_, I owe you nothing of the sort, but yet you do not heed me. You are instead most annoyingly persistent! You press and you **_press_**, and I was just fine, all this while. Do cease your infernal pestering! And don't dare whisper behind my back while you're at it. I am RIGHT HERE."

"Oh, I'd say you were, yes," Bilbo mutters, nodding wisely. "No argument there. Right there, yes. Can't not notice."

"Oh, bah," the Lady snorts, pointing a pinkie finger at Smaug's misshapen and much-stained bandage. "Which is precisely why your bleeding all over my nice clean floors, Smaug! A pox upon you, then, if you won't tell me what has happened. How is you are injured?"

"Oh, I say?" Bilbo perks up, having stuffed the last biscuit down his starving maw and slurped down the dregs of his sadly never-recharged cuppa. "I can help with that—"

"Close fast your tiny mouth, _Thief_," Smaug hisses, treating Bilbo to a dragon-sized glare. "And still your lying golden tongue! This is none of your bee's wax and you may not help, no! Not a bit of it. I require no further assistance!"

"What?" Bilbo's jaw drops in amazement. "But you do! You really, really do. That wound you have upon your breast—it will fester if it goes unattended. I know of some of these arts of healing from e're now and I know enough that I cannot possibly leave you to your own devices, my Great Serpentine Sulker! You'll die if I do! That was Dire, that Arrow!"

"I certainly shan't, Hobbit," Smaug replies sharply. "I am _Dragon_, as I keep reminding the both of you great nosy fools repeatedly—terribly tedious, doing so—and, as such, I am invincible. Why, you as much as said so yourself! Do you not recall your positive floods of praise and admiration? Your vapid gushing over my strength, my cleverness, my powers? Well, don't you? Is your mind as tiny as your itty-bitty body and cannot even retain it?"

"Hey!" Irked, finally and truly, Bilbo springs to his feet, giving Smaug back as good a glare as he can muster up for all that he's feeling distinctly off. "Uncalled for, Your Argumentative Arrogance! I was only trying to help you—"

"Wrong." Smaug frowns. "Wrong, wrong, wrong! You wanted only to steal from my horde and thus you poured over me the butter-boat, Covetous One, Measly Friend of Dwarves! When you saw I was struck by that odious arrow you must have felt some misplaced guilt; it's the only explanation for you to come rushing after me. It was all for your own benefit, you see? Obvious! And yet you dare declare yourself my friend—and now my Saviour! As if such a one as I require FRIENDS!"

Smaug seems to find the idea preposterous; the Elf shakes her head sadly.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Bilbo, however, practically hops in place, revived by a justifiable anger...though his knees are knocking so hard they chatter. "That's not at all how it happened! Not. At. All!" He discovers he, too, can shout, if necessary. A mule-headed reptile the size of several Oliphants stacked up together offers the most perfect example. "And I _am_ your friend, Smaug—I've said so, haven't I?"

Deflating somewhat, Bilbo sighs up at the dragon.

"I mean to say, you did agree yourself. That I was, back then. I heard you, Smaug. With mine own two ears. And you bore me away, when the Men might come searching us out. What are you then, if not a Friend?"

"Liar. Liar, in addition to Thief." Smaug tuts. "What I said and what you heard may not be the same thing at all, you know. Perceptions are deceptive. Hmm, however…"

Bilbo frowns; this is all becoming quite esoteric. "What, now?"

"You know, had you been possessed of a decent set of teeth," Smaug muses, revealing his own giant gnashers in a rather garish grin, "and had useful claws in place of those foolishly stubby fingers," he adds, clinking his together. "You might...you might just have..."

"Er...yes?" Bolbo prompts, not quite sure where this is going. "Have then?"

"Then, you might very well have had the makings of my kind. Mine, Hobbit. A grand race, we."

"Er…what?" The room spins rather crazily about a bewildered Hobbit. Fumbling a hand out to the back of his armchair, he practically collapses into it. "What d'you mean, 'your kind'?"

"A Dragon, oh my small thick-headed friend," Smaug is very smug indeed, declaring this. "A lovely scourge upon this MiddleEarth. In fact, I've changed my mind once more; your charms are _that_ convincing, Sweet Liar. You _shall_ be my friend, dear misguided fool though you are, and I shall **KEEP** _you_. An honourary Dragon, if naught else."

"K-Keep me?!"

Bilbo pales, vaguely horrified, as Smaug hisses. For all his passionate speech Smaug appears considerably calmer than before, even if not entirely sane. Still, Bilbo decides, a person cannot go about claiming they plan on keeping another person! Even if the first person is a Dragon and the second person is a Hobbit! Certainly not!

"**_Pardon_**?" It's not done! Not in the Shire, at least. "Excuse _you_?"

"Smaug!"

It's too late, the moment has passed away.

"I was speaking!"

"What, what, **what**, Elf? You bore me!"

"Hey!"

The Elf lady and the Dragon roundly ignore Bilbo, back to their previous game of staring one another down across the emptied tea pot and sniping scattershot.

"Ooooh, bloody!" Which is fine, as Bilbo is becoming aware he's not in the best of tempers. "I'm dizzy." Or the best of anything, really, after all these upsets in a row. He's more s distinctly queasy and the dragon he's stupidly rescued is proving to be a handful. "Are things...are things actually spinning or is it me?"

"Oh dear, Smaug," the Elf lady is murmuring over Bilbo's murmers, drowning them out. "Sometimes you really do go _too_ far. How rude of you—even for a dragon. I quite despair, sometimes."

"Hush! I do what I wish, Elf."

"Manners, dear! Now, this poor unfortunate Hobbit you've dragged home aside, may we please get back to _my_ point? You were about to tell where you've been, Smaug, all these years. And how so wounded?"

"No, I wasn't!"

"Yes." The Elf sets her chin firmly, thinning her lips. "You were. Get on with it, do. I'm waiting."

"Um?"

Given a split-second to consider, Bilbo decides he should be rather more ticked off at this insensitive beast, who clearly cares naught for the needs of the other life forms in his immediate sphere (and damnably little for his own, cheers, judging by Smaug's careless reaction to his own spilt blood, earlier), than he actually _is_.

"No. All right. Maybe look at it this way? Smaug? Smaug!"

But Bilbo is also rational enough to realize fuming over what amounts to small pence in tight spare pocket won't help with the larger matters. Smaug is a decidedly selfish git, but that appears to be a trait of the race, what?

"You will wait for a very long while then, Elf," Smaug snarls. "I hope your bones are at least of interest when you pass on from the waiting."

"Smaug! Dear, don't be like that!"

"Like what?"

"_That_!"

"Actually," Bilbo offers, more to the room at large than in hopes of seizing the mercurial dragon's fleeting attentions, "it's not precisely legal, keeping people. There's objections to it, really. I'm sure if you just think it over, right? Oh, Huge Hording One? Of the Very Pretty Scales?"

"Still waiting, Smaug." The Elf taps a pointy-shoed meaningfully. "Not best pleased, either."

Smaug seems impervious to Bilbo's compliments, even though Bilbo is quite preternaturally certain Smaug has noted them.

"Look, I, um," Bilbo tries again. "Perhaps it is best if I just go? I mean, you're likely quite correct when you say you're invincible, Smaug, so...ah? You're a brilliant specimen of a Dragon, really awesome, truly inspiring; you really don't need me, poor old _me_. I'm of no use at all, just as you've said. Just a passing Hobbit, that's all? Completely dull, right?"

"_**WHAT**_?" Smaug lowers his head down to nearly tea table level height, attention to the Elf above all else. "You do not stop with this; why is THAT? And hush, my Thief. I am busy. **BUSY**." Bilbo shrinks back i his armchair instinctively but the Dragon's eyes are solely upon the Elf, though, not upon a stammering Bilbo. "_What_ now, Woman?"

Breathing deep, rather relieved, Bilbo turns to an airy head check in on the Elf, this elderly soul who appears so fragile but yet is contradictorily more than capable of holding her own. "You," she says, shaking a finger at Smaug, "are the very Devil _incarnate_. Stop _stalling_."

"Have I," the dragon drawls, "in some way offended your fine sensibilities?"

"Yes, _what_, you scamp?" the Elvish not-housekeeper snarks straight back, bridling. "Exactly! And _not_ mine only, but that matter can wait till morning. This can not!"

She elevates her nose, a pose Smaug exactly replicates.

"Oh, really?"

Bilbo bites back an involuntary chuckle; Smaug sounds precisely like Bilbo's eldest of most elderly cousins, a Hobbit known far and wide in the Shire for his irascible ways.

"Yes, _really_, for I may need alert the Others. Tell me, how exactly do you mean to account for yourself, rapscallion?" Undaunted, Madame Elf lights into the great snaky miscreant, calling him to task. "It's been over sixty years. Sixty-six, if you wish to count it out, day by day, Smaug, as you do all your gems and sparkly gewgaws."

"_**So**_?"

She gestures rather carelessly towards the spilling heap of fortune nearly hidden in the shadows behind the dragon's enormous rear quarters. Bilbo spares a look to them, too, awed by the sheer abundance, but he has already what he came for; further thievery is really of no interest to him.

"So? Where were you, all this time?" Madame Elf demands insistently. "Account for yourself at once! And why are you now acting so vastly rude to the first friend you've ever brought home to meet me, dearie? It makes no sense at'all. He's a Hobbit, not your slave. Not your toy! I'm sure I've taught you better, upon my honour. Ingrate!"

"Hear, hear," Bilbo cannot stop himself from nodding along. "Not a sweet talker, our Smaug. Toy, indeed! Not me."

"**PAH**! Where _was_ I? Busy! Napping! Fighting! And that was hardly my fault!" Smaug huffs and puffs, cocking his chin belligerently and rising up to strike a theatrically threatening pose. "It was...It. WAS. _THEM_."

"...Busy?" Madame prods carefully. "How so?"

"Men, if you must know, Madame! Bloody MEN, rushing all about, under my feet, in my way—and then those bloody Dwarves, the worst of the lot, coming at me at every side with all their silly useless weaponry!"

"Oh Smaug! How dreadful!"

"Yes, exactly! Daring to fight **me**, the bastarding mite-sized grubs, over the meanest, measliest, most ridiculous little pile of gold I've seen in a lifetime spent hording professionally! Oh, no-no! You can hardly blame me for it, Madame! It was still treasure; of course I had to take it for myself! I am a Dragon—THE DRAGON! You do know—you _do_ know, Madame Elf, how I do so love to collect things. That is, by definition, _what dragons **DO**_." Smaug spares a sharp glance at Bilbo, who's been occupied swiveling his head between the two of them, gaping over one so large in body being so petty in speech. "Oh, right. Yes. And now I horde Hobbits, apparently. There you go, Elf. Full story, end stop. _Satisfied_, Madame?"

"**Oi**!" The Hobbit yips, struggling to rise. "**You**! You—you _monster_! You can't just! You mayn't! You mustn't! I simply will not stand for—not for being **collected**!"


	4. Transformation!

**Chapter Four: Transformation!**

* * *

"**NO**," Smaug roars and all the delicate crockery on the Elf lady's ornate tray rattles as the echoes of it boom about the giant chamber masquerading as a dragon's parlour. "**_N. O. _**Which means '**NO'**, my wee friend, plain and simple, even in the Low Speech, you short-shanked moron. You shall not GO! You shall NOT return to that gang of thieves—that murky-minded Dwarf King! It is not even a consideration, wee brainless idiot, you falling back in with that useless lot of fools and filthy blackguards! Cast the idea from your teeny-tiny little mind _this instant_! I forbid it! **FORBID IT**! And the word of Smaug is…is **LAW**."

"Wha…?" Bilbo whispers, his ears ringing, and abruptly falls, his knees buckling out from under him. "N-No? _Who-he_?"

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Smaug snaps hastily, impatiently. "Here, Thief!" Bilbo's head fills with a whizzing whirring spinning sort of white-noise, a crackle of sulphur gone incandescent, and he nearly instantly knows no more, welcome darkness closing in, but there's a fading memory of a distinctly loud popping sound and then two very warm, rather lanky arms sweeping about him. "I have you!"

The Hobbit's feet leave the floor before his head can hit it, and he's all-at-once cradled against the grubby bandage decorating the bare chest of a very strange-looking creature: not Man, not Wizard, not Elf-kind, either. Something rather different than all of those, rather the less mundane and the (as Smaug would sneer) far superior.

"I have you," Bilbo hears, very faintly, a hiss from a long pale throat, a vastly different body than just prior. "_My_ treasure. Safe, now."

"Well, now!" the Elf woman exclaims. "Smaug, is your Hobbit all right, dearie? No harm done, I trust?"

Oddly slitted eyes peer intently at the unconscious Hobbit, blinking. A long-fingered hand runs inquisitively from calf to shoulder, assessing. Bilbo is indeed held securely, the whole of him supported by the Something Superior.

"No. He is…asleep, I think," the newly altered Smaug replies, deftly shifting about on his narrow arched feet and collapsing his lanky form gracefully into the vacated armchair. He balances Bilbo's limp form across his nude thighs, only barely disguising the bulge of his genitalia, his very much shrunken tail tucked awkwardly beneath his bare bum. One fingertip taps nervously against the steady rise and fall of the Hobbit's waistcoat as the Dragon considers. "Only just asleep. I suppose it may've been a bit too much for him, a rational discourse? He is perhaps unaccustomed to orders? How strange that would be when he is obviously in the employ of Dwarves. I confess I don't understand it. But I will. Most definitely I will."

It sounds a vow in the tiny quiet befallen the three of them, Dragon, Elf and Hobbit. Smaug occupies himself with his continuing assessment of Bilbo's state, Bilbo sleeps and the Elf watches the two of them cautiously. After a breath, she replies.

"Smaug," her tone careful and tentative, the syllable sounding gentle in the hush that has fallen now the shouting's over. "You can't really keep him, you know. Your little friend there belongs in his Shire, properly, and he'll be pining for it already, I don't doubt. No matter how much you may...desire it."

"Hmm," Smaug rumbles, the sound emanating from a chest reduced to Man-sized. Faint tracings of his previous scales cover his pale exposed skin; when his high brow furrows in thought the tip of a forked tongue briefly slips out to wet a set of lips down-turned and pensive. "You _would_ say that, Madame."

"Smaug, you know it's true."

One transformed claw very briefly leaves off its possessive grip on the sleeping Bilbo to rub impatiently at a darkened horn spiraling up from its root in Smaug's temple. The other matching horn is like it's brother, the tips rising above a mass of blood-red hued hair, which feathers to s sooty shade at the ends of it. He vouchsafes nothing more, his gaze affixed to Bilbo's relaxed features, examining obsessively the manner in which the Hobbit's jaw has sagged a little in his sleep and the tiny damp patch of wet forming where the corner of his open mouth is nestled into Smaug's shoulder.

"Will you tell me now, please? What has really happened?" the Elf switches subjects with the ease of one long accustomed to coping with the temperamental. "I cannot be of use to you, dearie, not unless I know the full story."

"He came," Smaug replies fast but flat, a monotone stream completely at odds with his former posturing. "_He_ came. To me. I was in my newest Lair, napping peacefully. He was clearly a Thief—all signs pointed to it—but a charming one. I was beguiled, a bit. Very complimentary, this small person; I found myself more than pleased to have the gift of his company. perhaps...just perhaps I desired even then to keep it. _Him_."

Madame Elf manages to retain her expression of bland concern only with great effort. "Go on," she prompts, when Smaug stops speaking abruptly.

"My wee Thief was not unaccompanied, though," Smaug sighs, poking one very careful fingertip to Bilbo's cheek bone. Bilbo has the rounded open visage of his kind; even the tiny lines that have developed there over the years have been erased by the ease of rest. "Dwarves, a ragtag band of them, led by a mockery of ineptness—I believe his name was Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield, the arse. Claimed my Lair was rightfully his or some such rubbish. Claimed they were owed some part of my trove and had come to take it, by hook or by crook. They had set my Thief to his task of stealing it away, this bauble, and then they dared enter my Lair and insult me. I was naturally irate."

"Naturally," the Elf murmured, nodding. "You were."

"yes, but. I may have," Smaug bobbed his chin a little uncertainly, accidentally brushing at the wild tangle of honey-gold curls atop the Hobbit's head. "I may have…overreacted."

"Mmm-hmm."

"But it wasn't my fault. Had I not been vastly provoked—had that rubbishing Dwarf not made clear his foul intentions towards_ my_ Hobbit—had they not all attacked me, even this small one Himself with cruel words and trickery, I would never have…never have."

"Never have, dear?"

"Never have flown at that scrap of floating refuse those silly Menfolk call a town. Not in anger. And then they dared shoot me, those Men. A Dire Arrow, Madame. Soaring true."

Wincing slightly, Smaug glanced down at the patch of grubby bloodstained white still bound to his injured chest.

"One weakness, in all these many years," he went on softly, "and then suddenly the two. Distracted, it is surely no wonder I was caught out unexpected by those hateful Men and their Arrow before I could defend myself and deflect it. But little did I expect this one, my fickle Thief, my newest would-be treasure, to come tearing after to me, to come upon me where I had landed, stricken."

"Indeed."

"He insisted on bandaging me up, even went so far as to rent his own clothing to pieces to do it. And he spoke to me, charming me once more, and called himself my friend. My friend!"

"Yes. Go on."

"Do you not _see_, Elf? Do you not see how much I? I **must** keep him!" In one burning glance, the Elf noted it all: decades of draconian loneliness, and Smaug never realizing it, suddenly brought to end by the most amazing of creatures he'd ever encountered: a friendly Hobbit. "I cannot give him up, not now I have him. That Dwarf Kinglet is doomed; he'll carry my prize down to the dregs with him, and I'll not allow it—never!"

* * *

A/N: Please note Smaug's description in his newest physical form is owed to an awesome piece of art I caught sight of briefly on Tumblr. As soon as I locate again, I shall credit it properly. Trust me, it was inspiring!


	5. Revelation!

**Chapter Five: Revelations!**

* * *

Bilbo awakes to the drowsily pleasant sensation of being smothered by an insistently warm and quite weighty sack of silken fabrics, but somehow a sack magically animated. A mobile Sack-With-Fingers who clutches at the dazed Hobbit, an arm and leg sprawled over and atop Bilbo's chest and hips most possessively beneath the thin weight of the actual duvet. A Sack who, moreover, breathes out wisps of humid air into Bilbo's one exposed ear in the style of an overly affectionate feline.

"Mmmm..." The Sack twitches, settling more closely. "Hm."

"Mm—meh?" the Hobbit mumbles in vague response, attempting to roll out from under the Sack. Attempting as well to take a swat at it, as the swirl of breaths in his ear quite tickles. Ultimately unsuccessful, as he's essentially trapped, Bilbo blinks his bleary eyes fully open; they immediately go far wider than is quite comfortable. With shock, as he takes in what (or _Whom_, rather!) is actually restricting his feeble attempts at escape. "Meh-MAH?"

"Hmm, you've awakened at last, my Treasure," remarks The Sack—who isn't a sack at all but a Creature of a sort Bilbo has never yet set eyes upon—in a deep purring rumble. The register is so very subterranean Bilbo can literally feel his own sore muscles and sensitive nerves tremor wildly in response. "Tell me—are you satisfied with my plunderous efforts, Littlest Thief, Sweetest Talker? We've barely begun, of course, but I feel certain I've impressed upon you the length and strength of my ardour, my Wee Delight."

"L-Length and s-strength?" Bilbo stammers, casting his gaze frantically at the startling truth of his circumstances: not only has his unexpected bedmate (who seems insanely familiar for some reason, likely as he _is _insanely familiar, mostly in a manner Bilbo's stumbling mind has yet to get a grip on) attached his various long limbs to the obvious parts of Bilbo's body, effectively flattening him, the invader also seems to have grown a few more appendages to spare! "Gandalf's Grey Beard! Is—is that you, Smaug?"

It's a reasonable query, Bilbo thinks, dazed and blinking fast. As one of the spare appendages is what is most obviously a tail, stubby but still tapering and muscular, and that same prehensile tail is wrapped firmly about Bilbo's upper thigh twice over, and the other appendage is a manifestly masculine set of tackle most impressively sized in scale for the Elf-sized Creature in bed with him, the Hobbit's voice crackles in panic even as he's desperately squirming away from the grasp of the transformed dragon. As it must _The_ Dragon; there's no other explanation for it!

"What have you—what have you _done _to me?" Bilbo demands, struggling fitfully. "I feel! I feel _very_ strange indeed! You've not gone and drugged my tea, have you?"

"Ridiculous notion. Why ever _would_ I, Hobbit? I should think it's clear enough, even for a foolishly accusatory lover." The slits of Smaug's golden pupils flare; he props himself up on one elbow and positively looms over a shrinking Hobbit, horns bobbing as he tosses his fringe back off a very humanoid-appearing forehead. He smirks knowingly down at the Hobbit for a long moment; Bilbo finds he quite wishes to slap the smirk straight off. "No. I have only done to you what I do to all my multitude of lovely objects—I have _treasured _you, little one. Treasured _and _pleasured _and_ made it crystal clear that you'll belong to no one else ever but **ME**."

As if to prove it, the dragon presses the half-rigid shaft nesting in the sea of vermillion-singeing-over-to-ebony curls set between his much larger thighs right up against Bilbo's pathetically limp member and grinds down his hips in a most suggestive manner. The act produces immediate reaction; Bilbo looks down, appalled, as his own dick bobs a chipper greeting.

"Though it must be admitted I do not usually shag my other treasures quite so thoroughly, Hobbit, nor in the same way as I've had you. That would be both perverse and painful, I should think."

"Umph!" Bilbo groans and shuts his eyes. "Augh!" His bottom twinges oddly and he's discovering the reason why that might be, seeing as it's growing more tumescent by the second, Smaug's...erm? The thought of it, the raw hot _feel_ of it? Has Bilbo's eyes popping open in horror. "You didn't—oh, please tell me you didn't?" he begs, terribly afraid of even mouthing the word to describe the act his appalled mind can barely imagine. "With that—_that great thing_?" He points a trembling finger at Smaug's generous cock. "In-in _me_?"

"Last Night, yes," Smaug nods cheerily, his manner approving. "And I must say you were most deliriously joyful to receive it, my sweet Thief. Judging by the delicious noises you uttered all through," he goes on smugly, "I do think it was a resounding success. Better even than hording."

"_Sex_-cess?" Bilbo's tongue slips askew; he blushes brilliantly scarlet, nearly the same base ginger shade of Smaug's unusual two-toned mop of head-hair. "I mean, I meant," he gulps, "_suc_-cess? You think that was a '_success'_, having me up the bum without my even _knowing_?"

"Pardon?" Smaug angles up an enquiring eyebrow. "There was no question as to whether you were aware, Hobbit. Or consenting. You said 'yes' to my advances more than a hundred times over, Last Night. I'd wager, going by the evidence, you weren't just aware, you were more than amenable."

"Erm…yeah?'" Bilbo shakes his head in confusion. "I was? Funny how it is I don't remember."

"Oh, yes. Definitely."

Smaug smiles widely, flashing a set of impressively white teeth at Bilbo before bending his head down to pop a close-mouth kiss upon the tip of Bilbo's twitching nose; it's rather sweet gesture, really. Bilbo's mind goes curiously blank over that small kiss of fond affection, even as scraps and tatters of prurient, lusty and quite strenuously _physical_ memories surface here and there in his mind, like a raft of drowning dead bodies: the sound of his own voice, moaning in heated pleasure; the incomparable, nearly indescribable feel of that ineffable prick of Smaug's spearing Bilbo's innards, repeatedly stirring his bum into a brilliant throb of satiation; the unbearably hot-and-wet sensations of enthusiastically snogging a creature magically endowed with the most moist and nimble of forked tongues.

"Oh. Oh! Gah!" Bilbo shudders as all his remembrances come rushing together, coagulating into a vivid picture, final proof in the pudding Smaug is only being brutally honest, at least about Last Night. "You! You're not fibbing, are you? I liked it—I really, _really_ did!"

"Yes, exactly," Smaug says peaceably. "Tedious, to have to tell you twice over. And may I state you more than merely _liked _it, Bilbo Baggins-_formerly_-of-the-Shire, you _adored_ it, every part, every particle of ME, within you. You craved it and pled for it and spread yourself open as a small feast before me. I don't doubt you've gone and burnt all your wee brain cells to cinders in belated reaction to our mutual passion; that's the most likely explanation for your odd amnesia. It should pass, I would think, after a cup of tea."

"Amnesia?" Bilbo whispers. "Is that what this is? My head's gone all spinny-like, my vision's wonky, my buttocks are bruised, and you! You're damned heavy, you great twat! Do you think you might at least allow me a chance to inhale properly? That might be a part of my problem, don't you think? Oxygen deprivation!"

"Oh." Smaug draws back sharply, releasing the pressure upon Bilbo's chest. "Sorry. I confess I do forget at times the limitations of your race, my miniature sweetums. I had no intentions of squashing you. There, is that better?"

"Much, ta!" Bilbo gasps, taking advantage of the respite to sit bolt upright and stare about him. "Um. Right. Where are we, actually? I don't recognize this room at all."

That earns him a supercilious lift of sardonically black eyebrow. "My Lair, Hobbit."

"But your Lair is huge!" Bilbo protests. "Your Lair is chilly and a little dank, and filled to the gills with treasure!"

The room he's in now is very nicely appointed, stacked with the occasional heap of scrolls and tomes and sparsely cluttered with a fine selection of torts, retorts and other miscellany of a scientifical nature, all scattered over the many fine chests and wardrobes and desks, but really—it's a gentleman's bedroom he's occupying, as well as that certain 'gentleman's' bed. But attractive it all is, even sufficient to please a house-proud Hobbit!

"And this is, this _isn't_! Manifestly!"

"Of course not; that would be impossibly dreary, given the ambient temperature of these Northern Climes, dwelling out in the main cavern," Smaug agrees, snagging a restraining arm about Bilbo's bared waist when the Hobbit surges forward. "This is the _other_ area of my Lair, carved out decades ago and created by yours truly for those times when I chose to wear this form. Of my many."

The dragon flaps a careless hand at himself, drawing Bilbo's eyes to all his glorious strangeness of person, and every inch of it mouthwateringly attractive. "Ah...amazing!" Bilbo swallows back the involuntary word with some difficulty; he's never seen the like, really. His prick stirs on his sticky thigh, exhibiting interest nonetheless. "Er, um?"

"An option I am now finding to be more and more agreeable, now you've entered the picture, my Hobbit," Smaug adds. The smirk he's been wearing upon his handsome features seems to have turned horribly permanent. "But come back here to me, my pretty. I've not finished with you yet this morning and I do detect certain indications you are just as amenable now as you were Last Night." Bilbo jolts as Smaug winks sidelong at him and lewdly, burning golden gaze flitting down to affix with marked interest upon his traitorous groin.

"_What_?! You want to go at it again—so soon?" He practically snaps his own neck, so rapidly does he whip about, twisting his torso with that steely grip so as to stare aghast at the grabby-handed dragon. "Now you simply _must_ be joking me, you Bestial Behemoth! My arse-end is still aching like a bad tooth! Get _stuffed_!"

"Hoo-_hoo_, boys!"

Startled, both Dragon and Hobbit swivel heads to face the magnificently carved door, resounding hollowly with a sudden insistent thumping.

"Are you up yet? Rise and shine, dearies!"

"Bloody bollocks," Smaug snorts, a tiny puff of smoke trailing up from each nostril. "She's at it again, my housekeeper, intruding. Likely bearing a congratulatory breakfast tray I shouldn't wonder, all set to ply us with a bracing tea."

"Huh?"

"After our exertions of Last Night, obviously. No, no! It's far too early for this nonsense," Smaug snarls, flinging the flat of his palm up in a defensive gesture. "GO _AWAY_, MADAME! _Busy_!"

"No. And if you are, you'd better cease carousing about this instant and make yourselves decent!"

The door opens unceremoniously, to reveal the elderly Elf woman just on the verge of entering but not, Bilbo notes with some small regret, bearing a tray of breakfast. One slippered foot sets to tapping the floor as her eyes narrow dangerously upon the view of the two males, very obviously naked and caught out in a half-embrace of sorts.

"And? _Not_ your housekeeper, you impertinent reptile!" she chides, raising a chin at Smaug's scowl. "Your companion, perhaps, but never your servant!"

"Hah!" Smaug huffs scornfully. "Wrong! All signs and signatures indicate you devote yourself to my care, Madame! Your silly fret over my previous whereabouts confirms it! You can hardly _deny_—"

"I can, and I will, Smaug. Your companion, perhaps, or even your friend, but we have, as you yourself mentioned, a Bargain," the Elf cuts Smaug off without a qualm, glaring. "And, as such, I am here at your chamber door, upholding my end of it. You've gained yourself a visitor, Smaug. Pray rouse yourself and be about to deal with him."

"What? HIM? _Who_?"

The Elf folds her arms across her robes and sniffs in their general direction, thinning her lips.

"**Who** would dare invade **my** Lair at this hour?" Smaug storms. "I FORBID it!"

"You say a…a visitor?" Bilbo pales, for the first since his awakening seriously considering precisely what sort of trouble he may've landed himself in, should it be the leader of a Band of Dwarves lurking outside that very be-damning bedroom door of Smaug's. "Oh god, please no!" Bilbo shakes his tousled head in denial, his shoulders stiffening. "Not—not Thorin! Say it isn't he, Madame Elf! Eru's Mercy!"

"It isn't." Bilbo heaves a vast sigh of relief, slumping back against the conveniently soothing warmth of his lovely new Dragon. "No, it's that Gandalf, if I'm not mistaken," Madame Elf continues, archly.

"It-it's Gandalf? Really?" Smiling, the Hobbit sits back up again, instantly cheered. "He's my friend, you know?"

"...Gandalf," Smaug growls, his expression dire. "And who is this Gandalf, pray tell? Tell him to be off; I have ordered no new supplies lately."

"No, no," the Elf lady scolds. "Not some passing tradesman, but the Grey Wizard himself, Smaug; you may recall him? I believe he's another of your list of sworn enemies, dear, so perhaps you might wish to don garb now, to greet him? Seeing as he's right outside, awaiting you in your parlour, eating up all the remainder of my best biscuits."

* * *

A/N: As you may have noted, this is not properly beta'd. Except by me, generally several times over, oft' after the fact. It may pay you to wait upon me so as to not be offended by the ones I miss when first posting, yeah? Also, I am toying with an appropriate Elvish name for Mrs Hudson. Perhaps 'Hughlaurial'? As 'Hudson' is from 'Son of Hugh', from the French, and then there's that godawful pun I've got stuck in my head. (Cackles gleefully.)


	6. Indignation!

**Chapter Six: Indignation!**

* * *

"Bah! Botheration! Fucking _Wizards_!"

Smaug snaps his teeth in an excess of frustration and is exited the bed so fast Bilbo's left gaping, struggling to keep his balance in the billow of mattress. The dragon marches sternly towards the door where Madame Elf is awaiting and shoves past her, his scowl monumental.

It takes the Hobbit a moment, but when he does?

"Oi, Smaug! Bilbo yelps, scrambling after. "Aren't you going to cover yourself up? You're naked!"

"What, why? Why should I?" Smaug halts abruptly, spinning on a heel to stare at Bilbo, his snit temporarily cloaked by a visible bewilderment. "I am **Dragon**, Hobbit. I have no need of clothes!"

"Yes you do," Bilbo says fervently as he follows after, unable to tear his eyes away from the sublime length of draconian nudity jittering impatiently in the door frame. Madame titters softly; both ignore her. "You really, really do," he asserts, snagging a convenient pillow as he goes so as not offend the Elf lady with his own scarcity of garb. "It's indecent, receiving visitors in the buff, Smaug! At least wear a robe or—pants—or _something_!"

"Hah! I don't see the point of it, but very well, as it's _you_ insisting," Smaug mutters, casting a darkling look at both Elf and Hobbit. "Madame Hughlaurial, pray fetch a robe this instant. That quite dark one, I should think. It rather suits me."

"Not your housekeeper, dear," the Elf insists but she's already darted over to and flung open a huge wardrobe tucked away in a corner. She snatches out a length of rather luxurious fabric, densely woven as suitable for the cold clime and in a charcoal shade, and thrusts it at Smaug. "Here you are then, dearie. Put this on."

"There." Smaug proceeds to, frowning and muttering under his breath all the while. "Better?" he demands of Bilbo, when every last black-hued matte-dull button has been fastened. A little twirl sends the hemline of his garment flapping; he comes to a halt before Bilbo and peers down at him with ferocious intensity, as if the fate of MiddleEarth depends upon the Hobbit's _yea_-or-_nay_-say. "Will I _do_, Master Hobbit?"

"Oh, much better, ta," Bilbo smiles his relief, casually adjusting his own pillow. "That's very—er. I mean, you. _You_ look very nice," he stammers, finding himself flushing scarlet yet again, for something like the fifth time this morning. "In—in that. Erm. Thank you?"

"Really. 'Nice', is it? Only just 'nice', Sweet Talker? Surely you can do better than a mere' nice'."

Bilbo blushes, gulping. "Y-Yes! Ah, no! I meant to say 'good'. You look very good. Very attractive!"

Smaug _is_ incredible when viewed in all his nakedness, truly, but when clothed he is even more fine a specimen; for some weird reason robes seem to accentuate his eerily ethereal beauty, his colouring and his height. The high collar of the robe suits the arch of his throat and echoes the colour of his elegantly twisted horns, the length of it just comes to rest just at mid-calf, setting off Smaug's narrow arching feet and his gleaming toenails to perfection.

"Yessss…." Bilbo hisses, mouth gone dry as he just keeps staring…and staring. "Very…nice. Good. More than good, really. Er…striking? Fa-Fabulous?"

Bilbo casts about his brain, but it seems to have gone on holiday; his gift of gab has apparently got up and went! Fortunately, the last hasty compliments has a marked effect upon the dragon.

"Naturally. My appearance is always striking and oft'times 'fabulous', my small wonder," Smaug drawls, shifting abruptly to a much sunnier attitude. He smiles at Bilbo, a tiny lift of one corner of his luscious mouth, and there's not a shred of ill temper remaining to detract from the dazzle. "Now, my many charms being established, may I get on with running off that pesky Wizard? Ah! Move aside, Madame, if you will."

"Wait!"

"What now, tiny man? Do you desire a parting kiss before I go? I assure you I shan't be over long," Smaug leers back over his shoulder, "and I'll make it up to you in full when I return, my absence , I swear. In fact, I'd suggest resting up a bit more as you await me. Perhaps some food to sustain your tiny form? Tea? Don't hesitate to ask anything you wish of my housekeeper."

"Smaug! I've told and _told_ you—"

"Hush, Madame," Smaug says. "I meant it in the best of all possible meanings. Keeper of the Lair, aren't you? My House, then. A position of great honour and fortitude, that. I commend you. Would you move aside, now? You're in my path."

"Well, really!" Madame sniffs, but she subsides, deftly sidestepping the whirlwind that is Smaug. "How you do go on!"

"It's not possible, excepting it is, apparently: Bilbo's blush overtakes the entirety of his 'wee form'. He's sure he's about to expire of humiliation! "No! None of that now! Great Galumphing Git; sheesh! Have you no manners?'

"Manners?"The dragon pauses. "Me? No need of them, Hobbit. Irrelevant! Excuse me—"

"No, wait a moment, really! What I meant was?" Bilbo darts close, laying a staying hand on Smaug's arm. "May I come along? Gandalf's my friend, you see. I'd like to meet with him, too. 'Specially as I've something to give him."

"NO."

"Excuse me, what? Pardon? Why not?" Bilbo questions, baffled. "I don't see the harm. He's likely come looking for me anyway."

"**NO**. Wrong. Denied!" Smaug draws himself up his full height and towers over Bilbo, the very picture of fulmination. "I'll not have it, Hobbit! You will stay here, in my chambers, safely hidden away till that interfering old bag o' wind takes his leave and I'll **_NOT_** hear another word about it!"

He is gone away through the door before Bilbo can muster up a further protest, his benumbed lips only capable of producing silent guppy-like motions.

"Hmm," Madame Elf remarks after a long quiet moment, eyeing Bilbo's rapid blinks and the flutter of pulse at his tanned throat. "That was a bit awkward, dearie, wasn't it? Now, may I bring you your garb?"

"But-but I don't understand it!" Bilbo gabbles, his plea stopping her before she can flee out the doorway. "What's his problem, anyway? How rude of him—how irrational!"

Madame Hughlaurial heaves a sigh, turning back with reluctance. "Bilbo, dear—oh, may I address you as Bilbo?"

"Of course," Bilbo nods. "I'd be honoured. But, you were saying?'

"Thank you," she inclines her head kindly. "Bilbo, Smaug _is_ a dragon. First off and foremost, no matter how he may be guised currently."

"Yes, so?" Frowning, Bilbo returns her gaze directly. His cushion of concealment is slipping but that matters little when he's faced with attempting to comprehend the acts of a Great Contrary Bastard. "I don't follow."

"As such, he hordes; he may've mentioned that habit, once or twice now, dear? Hordes, as in takes things, with no intention of returning them. Precious things, valuable things, that sort."

"Ye…es," Biblo accedes slowly, nodding. "And?"

"_You_, dear Hobbit, are his latest acquisition. As Smaug would say, '_Obviously_!'" The Elf lady giggles, hiding her smile unsuccessfully behind a be-ringed hand. "And he'll not be leaving go of you lightly. You should've expected that, dearie. Ah! Your clothes, then? I'll just be going now and—"

"What? **NO**! I'm—I'm a _captive_? A hostage, now? Absurd!" The pillow drops away entirely, thumping softly to the floor as Bilbo waves his arms about, staggered—literally. He stumbles backwards, overwrought by the injustice, accidently kicking the cushion away. "Ridiculous! Preposterous—_insane_! He can't _do_ that, Madame Elf! It's—it's not done!"

"Oh, but I imagine you'll find he can, dear. He does as he wants, our Smaug. And if he's determined you're his to keep, Bilbo Baggins-_formerly_-of-the-Shire, he shall go to any lengths to manage it. Now! Clothes, dearie," Madame adds, waving a chiding forefinger at the incensed Hobbit. "I believe I've seen quite enough evidence of _your_ particular breed of masculinity this morning, fascinating as it is. You really are quite—quite impressive, for a Hobbit. Ah, back in a tick, now! Don't mind me!"

"Oh!" Biblo exclaims, left alone with his indignation, the Elf lady scurrying off down the corridor. "Oh, that idiot! Who does he think he is, anyway? Some kind of monstrous toddler? A—a _three_-year old? Bah! That's it, then!"

The Hobbit ceases his impromptu dance of rage about the confines of Smaug's bedroom and declares himself loudly to Smaug's possessions, mightily determined not to be counted as one of them.

"I shall follow after that huge twat and eavesdrop! Surely there's some way I can find of gaining Gandalf's attention!"

* * *

A/N: It follows logically that, if Madame Hughlaurial equates to Mrs Hudson, Gandalf can only be Mycroftian in nature, right? Expect some odd characterization, then, in the next chapter, alright? All apologies in advance.


	7. Negotiation!

**Chapter Seven: Negotiation!**

* * *

"Wizard," Smaug says snidely as he strides into the parlour Madame Elf has parked his visitor in. The grey-bearded, be-hatted individual sips his tea calmly and glances at Smaug.

"Dragon," Gandalf returns blandly. He nibbles on a biscuit, unfazed by Smaug's glare.

"Nuisance!" Smaug asserts, pointing an accusatory finger at the Wizard and scowling.

"Scourge," the Wizard smiles, flicking an errant crumb from his beard. "I see you have been wounded," he adds, glancing in the direction of Smaug's chest. The tattered bandage may be seen there still, grimly clinging.

"This little scratch? It's nothing!" The dragon rips away the bandage with a grand gesture, revealing a lovely scab. "Completely healed already, see? Nosy!"

"Hardly _nothing_," Gandalf observes. "Seeing as you required some sort of assistance to heal you, Dragon. An injury such as that would require it. Would require, furthermore, the touch of hands, not claws. Perhaps Madame Elf's?" He shakes his grey head consideringly. "But no. I would wager the hands of someone…considerably…_shorter_."

"Bugger YOU AND YOUR_ rude_ insinuations, Wizard. Now! **_OUT_**!" the irritated dragon shouts, drawing his gaping robe more tightly about him with a flourish and tossing his head in the direction of the door. "Enough of these pointless pleasantries. Begone with you!"

"Ah," Gandalf replies, gently gesturing with his cuppa. "Well. I am afraid I cannot 'begone' just yet, Smaug. You have, I believe, something—_someone_—in your Lair who is quite integral to my endeavours. I request you return him."

"Hmm," Smaug hums loud as an angry wasp, abruptly dropping his irate person into the facing armchair. The tip of his tail twitches in irritation as he leans toward the Wizard, steepling his fingers and frowning. "I knew it! Tell me, how did you even manage to make it up here, to my Lair, on those stumpy legs of yours, old man? It is not exactly accessible, even for the stouthearted and _young_," he sneers, waving one pinkie at Gandalf's grey beard. "And you hardly fit either of _those_ categories."

"Giant eagle," Gandalf nods amicably, impervious to insult. "Fast, fleet and convenient." He sips again, as if to broadcast he is in no hurry to depart. "Much the best way to travel about MiddleEarth, you know? Now—about my Hobbit?"

"NOT. YOUR. HOBBIT," Smaug snarls, flinging himself back into the depths of his chair, eyes flashing golden fire. "**_My_** Hobbit! I have taken him and I shall not be returning him, you gassy old windbag, you. You must take your life very lightly indeed to even dare demand it of me! What is MINE IS MINE and shall stay that way!"

Gandalf merely lifts an eyebrow in scant reply, gobbling up yet another biscuit.

"Argh! Pestilence!" Furious, Smaug abandons his lounging ways to pour out a cup of tea of his own. He snatches up and stuffs the last remaining biscuit on the tray into his maw just as Gandalf reaches for it. "Pox upon you," he mutters darkly, swallowing it down and licking stray smudges of chocolate from his pursed lips. "Invading my home to annoy me with your petty requests to make off with my property! That Hobbit is MINE, I'll have you know, and no one else shall ever have him."

"Hardly _demand_, oh Great Pugnacious Worm, nor even yet 'wish'," Gandalf ripostes. "More like _require_. The point being that Bilbo Baggins is neither yours nor mine to acquire, no matter what delusions you harbour. He is a free Hobbit, of the Shire. Further, and however, the next point being that Bilbo has signed a valid contract with my current Company and it is necessary he be present and available to fulfill his duties. That is all this is, really. A Matter of Business."

"Bosh! A bloody bollocks to your Company and your worthless Business! I refuse to allow it. Leave, now!"

"No."

"Yes," Smaug insists firmly, setting down his cup with a clatter. "You've no choice in the Matter of My Business, Wizard, and no call to poke your nose in. The Hobbit you seek has agreed to be mine and I'm keeping him. I should be rendered quite desolate to lose him; therefore it is accordingly _your_ loss, Gandalf, and you may take yourself off to regret it in private. You are not welcome here!"

"Oooh!" Bilbo, lurking invisible behind Gandalf's' chair, barely manages to stifle his squeak of dismayed surprise. "Lying bastard!"

"Hmm? Excuse me?" Smaug's keen hearing detects the tiny sound; he peers about him in puzzlement. "Did you say something, Wizard?"

"….No," Gandalf replies, sedately replacing his emptied cup to the tea tray and settling back into his seat. "But I believe someone else did."

"What do you mean, you impossible old idiot?" Smaug demands. "There's none but you and I present!"

"That would be me!" Bilbo leaps out, whisking the Ring off his finger and stuffing it away in his waistcoat pocket. "I'm here! Gandalf's referring to me, you Smug Sod, Smaug! I never agreed to anything, much less staying here forever! Take it back, do! _Not_ your property, no more than Madame Elf is your housekeeper!"

"My precious!" Smaug exclaims, similarly leaping up. He swoops towards Bilbo, hands outstretched in greeting, taking no note of the Hobbit's agitation. "However did you manage to sneak in here? I thought you were still nestled in my bed, awaiting me, my pint-sized darling! Whatever—I confess I am more than glad to see you! Do come to me, my little lover; I would very much like to embrace you."

"Ew!" Bilbo makes a retching noise, ably scrambling out reach. "No!" He dodges again when Smaug goes to follow after. "Please, _please_ don't call me that, all right? I am not your 'pint-sized' anything; I am a full-grown Hobbit and what's more, I am quite tall for my kind! Now, I had a lovely time and all that, and Last Night was certainly an—an experience—"

"An experience?!" Smaug echoes, outraged. He halts, staring at Bilbo as if the Hobbit is possessed of a demon. "It was far more than a MERE EXPERIENCE, Thief!"

"All right, no. Sorry," Bilbo allows, his ready blush betraying him. "It was good, actually. Very, very…good—no, _super_, okay? Super fantastic in every way. And I'm very grateful. To you. For your company—I mean, knowing you has been a grand, Smaug, and all that, but I really do need to go. I've an Obligation. I was off on an adventure, you see, and Gandalf here is completely correct: I still need fulfill my promise to Thorin and the rest of them."

"You?" Smaug retreats a step, his arms falling loosely to his sides. "You…" And then another, but carefully, as if unsure what abyss might lay behind. He stares at Bilbo as if struck by an unseen bolt of lightning. "You would willingly choose to leave me, Thief? Is that...that _is _what you mean, is it not?"

The dragon stumbles where he stands, whirling about to present his staunch back without waiting for Bilbo's reply.

"I knew it." Bilbo hears Smaug's mutter, soft and bitter. "Knew it, knew it, knew it! All the clues were right there, weren't they? Weren't they?! Right under my snout!"

"Er, sorry, what?" Bilbo asks, hesitatant and unhappy. "That's not what—"

"No! IT IS! I deduced this would happen, this disastrous turn of events," Smaug hisses, three long strides taking him towards the doorway leading to his private chambers. "Thief! Sneak! LIAR!"

He flings an accusing look at Bilbo over one very rigid shoulder as he nearly rips the door from its jamb, one white-knuckled hand curving harshly about the knob.

"No, don't dare shake your head at me! You are indeed a Liar, my Honey-Tongued Thief, an exceedingly adept one. You've made a fool of ME, and no one has ever managed that before! But—fine! Good! **FANTASTIC**! If that's how it is, then by all means take your leave of me and go trotting off with your _real_ Friend, the Wizard! Begone with you, my Horrid Wee Hobbit—and don't _dare_ show your false face here again, not if you value your _stupid_ little,_ pathetic_ little, _annoying_ little, _freakish_ little miserable **LIFE**!"

"Ah, bu—? No!" Bilbo babbles but Smaug is gone, leaving only the resounding slam of the door behind him.

"Oh," Gandalf remarks, shattering the poignant pause created by one slack-jawed Hobbit and one recently exited and very tempestuous dragon. "Well, now. That's put your foot in it, hasn't it?"

"Erm…yes?" Bilbo nods slowly, blinking at the still vibrating door panels. He shakes his head at them sadly when they refuse to budge open, revealing—he hopes—the lingering form of an eavesdropping dragon . "Yes, probably. It has…yes. Damn and blast, yes it has! Buggerall! _Why _does he _always_ have to do this, the silly cretin? Always the wrong idea sticking in his great gargantuan brain! It's—it's maddening!"

In a sudden flurry the infuriated Hobbit steps up to the stubbornly closed door and thumps his forehead against it—once, twice, thrice in succession.

"Oh, my," Gandalf remarks. "That can't be helpful."

"Helpful? What's helpful now? You know what, Gandalf? I'll tell you what! I didn't _mean_ for him to take it that way, me leaving him forever. I never did! I _was _planning to see him again, the idiot, once the adventure was through, I _was_! And now he thinks—that! Argh! That brainlessly brilliant berk! Always _assuming_!"

"Let me guess," Gandalf says, rising from his ringside seat and crossing the little distance between them. He places a friendly hand upon Bilbo's shoulder, giving it a tiny pat of sympathy. "You regret it deeply, don't you? Your promise to the Company. For all his myriad faults, it seems your new friend the dragon is quite smitten. With _you_."

"Ah…maybe? Per…haps?" Bilbo turns a miserable visage upwards, peering at the Wizard's kindly mien in bewilderment. He frowns, wrinkling his nose. "I mean, he's certainly most passionate, that's true. But Smaug…in love? With _me_? What makes you think so?"

"Ah," Gandalf chuckles, catching up his staff and twirling it as he steps back, "that would be telling, Master Baggins. But, listen. I believe I may have a solution to this quandary—one that will allow you to mend your fences and also fulfill your promise to the Company. Tell me, have you still about your person the Arkenstone?"

"The—the Arkenstone?" Bilbo cocks his head, twisting his lips as he recalls it—also safely tucked away in a pocket. "Why, yes, actually. What of it?"

"Good!" Gandalf nods with approval, beaming. "Then I do believe, my dear wee Adventurer, that we may make ourselves a New Deal. Of sorts. Or at least revise our current contract."


	8. Remonstration!

**Chapter Eight: Remonstration!**

* * *

A good night's sleep does wonders to restore Bilbo's sunny disposition.

"Good morning!" he chirps at the Elf woman as he settles down at her rather homey kitchen table, draped with a checquered cloth and decorated with a vase of carefully preserved wildflowers. A steaming cuppa awaits him and he dives directly in, humming. "Hmm. Thank you so much for allowing me to sleep on your settee last night. Slept marvelously well, cheers! And you?"

"Breakfast," Madame Hughlaurial replies sharply, slamming a plateful of beneficently bounteous fry-up before him and neatly deflecting Bilbo's genial enquiry in favour of giving him an admonitory glare. "Eat it all up, now, every egg and every banger. You'll be needing your full strength about you, dealing with Himself. He's in a fine rare form this morning, after such an extended sulk."

"Oh, aye?" Bilbo blinks at her she slides into the seat opposite, taking up her own tea and sipping it in a manner most severe. He's not been treated to the rough edge of Hughlaurial's tongue yet but having witnessed it in verbal battle with Smaug, the Hobbit can't say he much wants to, either. "Now who's sulking, Madame? Have I somehow offended you already? Erm— I've only just woken up?"

"Aye, you have, and there's no need to sass _me_, young Hobbit." She treats him to a long meaningful stare, meant to convey any number of statements, but Bilbo's truly at sea and can't seem to divine them. At his perplexed shrug, she relents finally, her frosty demeanour thawing ever so slightly. "Bilbo, dear, you should know you've damaged his sensibilities quite dreadfully with yesterday's domestic."

"I did?"

"Yes, of course you did, dearie! Really, you couldn't possibly have hurt him the more, could you have? Convinced he's losing his only friend in the whole wide world, just as he's found him; losing his _lover_? Why, it's exceeding heartless of you, to let him stay alone after, believing you'd run off with that pompous old Wizard."

"But—but I _tried!_" Bilbo gasps. "He wouldn't _listen!_"

"No, no, of course he wouldn't listen; when does he ever listen? But you should have tried all the harder, realizing that! I admit I was shocked; such careless behavior! I had always believed Hobbits to be more of a noble breed, of an elevated nature, despite all their small stature. It was all I could manage, biting my tongue and not scolding you for it. Not mention giving you a bed for the night without him knowing!"

"Oh!" Bilbo flushes miserably and casts his eyes towards his plate. "Point taken." Suddenly the delicious meal doesn't seem quite so appetizing. "I really rather did, didn't I? Hurt his feelings."

"_Yes_."

"I'm…well. I _am_ sorry." Bilbo slumps, twinned spots of colour flushing his cheeks. "I _meant _to confront him, truly I did, but then he'd gone and closed his chamber door against me, no matter how hard I knocked, and then he _locked_ it—"

"Are you not an accredited Thief, Hobbit?" the Elf demanded, scandalized. "One little lock is sufficient to defeat you? For shame!"

"Oh, it is, isn't? And my fault!" Bilbo pulls a hangdog face at his stern hostess, poking his lower lip out in consternation. "Although, to be honest, Madame? To be fair, if we're keeping count of transgressions now? It's _his_ fault just as much as mine, as he's a right proper idiot and willfully jumps to conclusions whenever he's pouting or storming about or—or simply _shouting_, which is often, but _still_—"

"Just so," Madame Elf agrees heartily, bobbing her chin at Bilbo. "There you have it, at last! He's mercurial, our Smaug; a handful. And yet you let him land his contrary self in a veritable morass of despondency without catching him up, Master Hobbit! I daresay you've a great deal of lost ground to make up for by now! So? Eat up your breakfast! Time_ is_ a'wasting."

"Oh, dear, yes, but, erm?" Bilbo hastily scoops up a forkful of breakfast. "Some advice, if you please? You know him so well," he wheedles. "_How_ may I go about fixing—"

"It may be too late," Madame sighs. Then she brightens, visibly perking up at Bilbo's ever more decidedly woeful expression. "Or…it may not. One never knows what goes on with His Rash Impetuousness, does one? But tread you exceeding carefully all the same, dearie. He is what he is and a large percentage of that is comprised of a fearsome temper. What part's not devoted to his monumental pride and monstrous ego, that is."

"Right, then. I will," Bilbo assures her, manfully straightening his shoulders and belting up internally. He is a thief of sorts, after all. Surely he can steal back the heart of a lonely, ill-humoured dragon? "Straightaway after breakfast, then, by your leave?" He tackles his plate with a renewed sense of purpose, already sorting out apologies. "My, but this does look scrumptious. T'would be a crying shame to waste it."

"Very well, dearie." Hughlaurial blesses Bilbo with a glowing smile, her bright eyes twinkling. "I am ever so pleased with you now, really I am. Smaug_ is_ a righteous rapscallion and sometime really quite the scourge he claims to be but he's my scourge and I must confess I'm rather fond of him. So lovely to know there's another being in this world who may feel fond, as I do."

"Brilliant!" Bilbo grins in return, spirits restored. "And you've no need to fret, as I am rather fond of him too, the Great Git!"


	9. Reconciliation!

**Chapter Nine: Reconciliation! **

* * *

After breakfast and quick wash-up, it's only a matter of a moment for Bilbo's spry small fingers (plus one of Madame's hairpins, employed artfully) to force the lock on Smaug's chamber door. He stomps in, looking about him, but much to Bilbo's dismay, his disconsolate dragon is nowhere in sight.

He's not in the main treasure room either. Nor the best parlour, the second-best parlour, the library nor the loo.

"Smaug!" Bilbo calls, casting about all the other many nooks and crannies, corridors and rooms that riddle the looming walls of Smaug's torturously arranged Lair. "Smaug, where are you? Come out and face me, you ridiculous idiot. I have something to say to you!"

Bilbo receives no reply, not even the tiniest echo of a snarl. The Dragon has vanished himself, as if by magic.

"Oh, bah! What a nuisance!"

There's nothing for it but to run off and consult with the Elf lady again, as one thing the Lair's _not_ got is a convenient directory hanging about, posted.

"Look, I'm sorry," Bilbo announces first off, the moment he gains the dragon's tertiary treasure chamber. "Very dreadfully sorry, Smaug."

The room may be termed the least of them by Madame Elf, but the rather gigantic place is haphazardly heaped about with valuables in their multitudinous masses; it boggles. "Oh, snap!" Bilbo murmurs, momentarily distracted by the sheer dazzle of it all. "Ouch! Oh! _There_ you are—finally! Come out, won't you, Smaug? Please."

Smack dead-centre there's the welcome sight of another sort of mass entirely: a gleaming, scaly dragon, curled up with his arching spine facing the doorway, twin streams of smoke lazily rising from the flare of his nostrils. Bilbo immediately trots about the piles and heaps to come face to face with the immensity that is Smaug, returned to his original form.

One golden eye blinks open. "_What_." It's not exactly the most enthusiastic of greetings; Bilbo gulps and levels his chin firmly at Smaug's disdainful sniff. "Do. You. Want. Filthy. Liar."

This calls for a girding of the loins and Bilbo's up for it. He stands as tall as he can, his spine starched, and clasps his hands behind his back in a militant fashion, settling his feet firmly into the slippery cascade of golden coins and whatnot. "Look, I was. Well, I wasn't _myself_, not at all, and I want to apologize to you for it. You'd really upset me, but—I'm past that. Very much so."

"Apologize?" Smaug exhibits the first sign of interest, lifting his chin off a massive chest spilling over with an assortment of gems and baubles. "Huh."

It's enough of a concession to send Bilbo darting forward, placing his hands on either side of Smaug's flaring nostrils. Ducking the irritable puffs of smoke drifting up from them, he leans his face in close and captures Smaug's gaze earnestly.

"Yes! I wasn't thinking, at least not too clearly, and it all struck me the wrong way 'round, your way of thinking—all the hording and so forth? And then Madame explained it to me, what keeping really means to you, and I finally grasped it—only natural, really, given what you _are_ and well, _who_ you are? Dragon and all that. But _who_ you really are is—"

"…Yes?"

"Is, is…you _are_ my very dear friend, Smaug," Bilbo stammers. "Or, at least, I'd like to consider you so. And I am so very sorry to have hurt you. Please forgive me. Say you will."

"Friend." A very flat query. "Define, please, Hobbit. What is a 'friend' in your practical lexicon?"

"Ah, well?" Bilbo blinks, partly in thought at the nature of the question and partly because Smaug's form is shimmering, gone all hazy about the edges. "About that."

"Don't mind me, Thief. Carry on," Smaug directs dryly, lashing his great tail behind him, eyes glowing. "I'm quite agog."

"I, um," the startled Hobbit hedges, cocking his chin to peer at Smaug more closely. "Ah?" He snatches his hands away, stumbling back a step. "It's—look here, are you quite all right? Because you seem to be shrinking. Or something."

"Quite all right, thank you," Smaug replies and surely even his voice seems somehow…smaller? "Returning to my question, Thief. Your definition? To what lengths, say, would you go for a friend…a friend newly minted? A friend…unexpected?"

"Oh, ahh—Well, I would—I've, ah—I've stabbed a few Orcs, in my ti—"

"Not _that_! Boring! No! Say instead you've taken up with a troublesome friend," Smaug interrupts, and no, Bilbo's eyes are not deceiving him. Smaug is half again the size he was and his scales are most definitely retreating, sinking into his skin in an mind-boggling manner. Golden sparkles shiver off him, reducing his mass again and again and yet he's still Smaug, sneering and sly. Smiling, advancing, and (somehow) ramping up Bilbo's senses to a hypersensitive state. "In times of peace, perhaps," Smaug muses, his voice gone ripe and fruitful as the Shire's apple trees in autumn. Bilbo shivers; he does so love the cider that comes of that. "Yes, during those. What lengths, Hobbit? How far would you travel to…please him? Your...troublesome friend?"

Smaug is noticeably smaller all around. What's more, this transformation round he seems to be far less of a dragon-esque sort of Man-thing and far more of an—

"Elf! You're really an Elf, all this time?" Bilbo gawps, completely captivated, shelving the perplexing rhetorical question his dragon harps upon in favour of the truth unfolding before his eyes. "Well! Why did you not say so, Smaug? My stars, but that's brilliant!"

"I am _not_, Hobbit. No. NEVER."

The dragon—not an Elf?—gathers his naked limbs about him and arises gracefully, stepping down off the golden pile with nary a misstep on the sliding coins, the poking out edges of long-lost tiaras, the scatter of gems, faceted and rough-cut.

"Ever. An _Elf_."

He waves off Bilbo's idea as patently absurd.

"I _am_ a Dragon, as you see me—and just as you knew me e're now, in my bed. That Night, my beloved...s'truth! I'd have had you, any way manner, any rode! And I _never_ cease to **be** a dragon, Master Hobbit. _Draconius draeconia sapiens_, officially, per all my chroniclers, few though they are and none breathing these days, more's the pity. As such, I can will my form to what suits me—small, tall, great of girth or thin as shiny silver'd thimble, garbed or barren, rich or poor. Or…or even what suits _others_. _Certain_ others. Only a…a very few of those about, though. I can count one, only. If I may."

"You—you can? You really can do this, simply at will? Whenever you wish to? How ever did I miss this before?" Bilbo demands rhetorically and flaps his hands at Smaug, hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement and completely missing the implied compliment. "That's—that's purely brilliant! Well done, you!"

Smaug smiles, a tilt to the lips, an angle to the chin and his eyes gleam very golden. He draws more closely, but a few steps apart from Bilbo and stays himself, inhaling sharply. "But of course. Have you not _seen _me before now, have you not OBSERVED? Felt me, touched my skin, tasted of my mouth, been stuffed full of my flesh, engorged? Of course it's brilliant—I _AM_ BRILLIANT. Ahem. Not that anyone ever bothers _to say so_. Not until you, at least. You are. You are...most peculiar."

"Ah…yes?" Bilbo flushes and looks away, anywhere at all but at the advancing dragon. "Peculiar, is it? Hah! Right, then, um. To go on, since I must tell you. I was a bit out of it yesterday, sorry! Didn't quite connect all the dots, Smaug, what with the _no_ sleep and then the _no_ food situation—_and_ then the fleeing, _and_ the flying all day in the cold and what all. Not at my best, by the end."

"No matter," Smaug announces peremptorily, halting just before Bilbo and settling two large hands upon the Hobbit's upper arms, cutting the Hobbit's scrambling apology short. "Shut your babbling mouth, Thief—and listen when I am SPEAKING."

His hands tighten down inexorably and Bilbo feels the tiny bite of ten sharp-nailed digits. "Oi! Careful!"

"Never mind that. You must tell me at once, for I am most curious. Is this the guise that is so much more pleasing to you? Are you more of an inclination to—to _befriend_ me as I appear now? As what some ill-educated fools would say resembles more the look of an Elf—or even one of those accursed Men, my little one? And as opposed to a Scurrilous Scourge most horrid—a fiery Death bourne on the wings of a hurricane?"

"Oh, help!" Bilbo shudders, the verbal onslaught like a pour of hot honey straight his spine. Smaug, when he chooses, could coax the bees from the flowers, even as he likens himself to the worst of destroyers. "But I liked you as you were!"

"You…don't say."

"Of course I do say! I said!" Bilbo can't help but push himself forward; there's something helplessly pleading about that preternaturally focused gaze, that mesmerizing voice as it asks of him question after question. "I really _really_ do, Smaug—bloody ninny! Come here!"

Bilbo reaches out, daring to grasp at the much shrunk forearms of this—this person! This being, magical, who only a moment or two previous was huge, and scaly—and had teeth and claws and a flame most fearful!

"I mean, you're very lovely now, of course, but you were lovely before!" he gabbles, desperately wanting that tense look in Smaug's eyes to simply _go away_, wanting the great stiff bumbling idiot to relax his body and take up Bilbo's nonverbal offer of a snuggle, a decent embrace. "You were lovely back at the Misty Mountain and you were even more so two nights ago, Smaug—either way, any way at all, you are simply magnificent. And—and, you're not at that horrid, not really! You've not eaten me, not once. I-I _appreciate_ that, very much. There's any number of occasions you could've simply fried me to a crisp and you haven't. Instead you've taken me in and fed and housed me—"

"And shagged you," Smaug interjects slyly, yanking Bilbo more firmly against his naked front. "Don't forget."

"And you didn't, not once!" Bilbo gabbles gladly. "Eat me, that is. I'm-I'm grateful, I am!"

"Ah? Actually, my small wonder, I did eat you, remember? I just didn't chew."

"Shut up! Not what I meant!" Bilbo buries his hot face against the area where Smaug's nearly fatal wound had been once. A fading scab is all that remains, only slightly distorting the pull of skin about one plump scarlet nipple. "Rudesby! Wanker!"

"Hmm, so. _Not_ horrid, then." Smaug's eye slits broaden as he blinks down at Bilbo, bemused. "And you really believe this. Amazing indeed, my…my Friend."

"Exactly so!" Bilbo nods staunchly, giving into a heady urge to cuddle more closely, perhaps climb up Smaug like a tree. The vast chamber is chilly and Smaug is a very hot-blooded body, so? Tempting! The Hobbit keeps himself to task by sheer will and grit of back teeth. "That's what you _are_, Smaug: my Friend. My friend with, erm? Benefits? And then also magical _and _absolutely fascinating! Why, I've never seen anything like you, not in all my born days. It's marvellous."

"Is that so?" Two very warm hands shift down the Hobbit's back, coming to rest on his buttocks. They squeeze gently and Bilbo blushes harder, cheeks flaming hot when he realizes he's salivating. "Hmm, as all is forgiven between us, perhaps I should go even a little shorter, for your sake, my Halfling. You're not very tall, Heart-Stealer. I fear I still…tower, just a bit. Puts you at a marked disadvantage, that, unless we're recumbent. Would that be your preference? Me, but an inch or so lessened? More…like you?"

"No, no," Bilbo protests, snagging an elbow about Smaug's neck and going up on his tippy-toes to do it. Smaug's inquisitive face fills his vision. It is long and thin, boney and hollowed-out, but yet utterly, eerily, even mystically beautiful in the way Elvish folk are beautiful. His horns and oddly shaped ears serve only to enhance it and Bilbo can't seem to tear his attention away from Smaug's steady stare. "No! Don't change any further, not a smidgeon! I like you, tall or short, huge like the other You or small, like me. This size, any size. Exactly perfect, really."

"…Really? Go on. Flatterer."

"Oh, yes—and it's not flattery! Your eyes? They are yours, no matter your form, and they—they're beautiful. And your skin—it's as smooth as your magnificent scales." This is naught but truth in Bilbo's opinion. Smaug's skin in this form is both translucently pale and strangely flushed, as if every vein beneath it runs hot; breathtaking!

"Tell me more, little one," Smaug coaxes. "MORE."

"Well, I quite like it, the little bit of difference in our sizes. Lends you a certain presence, yeah? And I'm a Hobbit, of course, but that's all fine—I quite like being what I am. But you, Smaug! You really are amazing—extraordinarily unique. I could stare at you for ages. I may just do, if you'll let me."

"Might you? Indeed. Perhaps…similarly unclothed?"

"Absolutely!"

"Ah." Smaug stills, the sinewy muscles of his forearms flexing beneath Bilbo's fingers. "It logically follows…"

"Umm?"

Smaug rather neatly inserts a muscular thigh between Bilbo's slightly shaky legs and hauls the quivering Hobbit upwards. There's clear evidence the both of them are very much' interested'.

"If that's so, little one?" A glancing kiss seals Bilbo's lips, the wet slip of a forked tongue gluing the Hobbit's mouth shut . "And all is forgiven between us."

"Hmm?"Bilbo moans, eyes closing dreamily as Smaug flexes a fine set of tendon and muscle right beneath his bum, sparking a shaft of delight straight through his groin. "Um. Hmm...yes, please?"

"Would you—might you?" Smaug's voice trickles into Bilbo's ear just as his smoke scents the air in his other, larger form. "Consent, then. Willingly. If I were to ask nicely—say please?"

"Eh?" Bilbo draws back just far enough to blink up at Smaug. "Er, did you want to have another go, then? 'Cause I quite thought that's where we were going with—"

"Shag? Oh yes," Smaug chuckles. "Of course we shall shag, but what I meant was, will you be willing? To stay? Here, in my Lair. Especially if I should promise not to actually keep you a true hostage? For surely the Dwarves you keep company shan't notice your absence; they're none of them very observing, and they've no reason to seek you out, now that batty greybeard's made off with their precious Arkenstone. It follows, then, you are free of all obligation, dear heart, and can therefore stay—"

"Wait—how did you even know that? About the Arkenstone? I never told you!" Bilbo's eyes practically pop. "We weren't even speaking, yesterday!"

"Oh, please." Smaug scoffs, twirling the slitted pupils of his eyes in a most nauseous-making manner. "I know everything there is to know, my sweet, when it comes to my own Lair. Even as to your bargain with that arse Gandalf."

"For fuc—ah! Of _course_ you do, of course you do, why would I ever doubt it? But, Smaug—oh, botheration!" With a wreching motion, Bilbo rips out of Smaug's grasp and capers in an unhappy little circle, his feet padding about nimbly on the thin scree of treasure. "Bugger and blast it and—and—bags of shite-sticks! _I'd _quite forgotten them in all the kerfuffle! However could I?"

"I can think of many reasons, actually. None of them are precisely _memorable_."

"No! Hush, you!" Bilbo dashes about in a tiny circle, muttering. "That's not the point! Oh! I'm a terrible, terrible person, me! They're my Friends, and I've really actually abandoned them, even if I haven't, on a straight technicality—oh bloody _Politicks_! I'll never get the hang of it!"

"And, more to the point, why _ever_," Smaug remarks softly, rolling his eyes and firmly retrieving a distraught Hobbit to close quarters, "did I mention those filthy creatures in your hearing? You're a fool to keep company with them, Thief, but…more fool _me_. As if they even matter."

"Now wait a dratted moment, you Great Green-Eyed Monster. They matter to me, all right? I should at least say 'hullo'! Courtesy, if naught else! I can't just brush them off, I can't."

"Hoo-hoo! Smaug!" The old Elf woman pokes her head about the gaping door. "Speaking of, dears, I believe you've yet another visitor coming along the way—at least that's what my old Elven eyes spy. That Dwarf King you've mentioned, the one you despise so very much, more even than Gandalf? Name of Thorin, I think? Oakensward or Maplebadge or some such nonsense. You know, dear. _Bilbo's_ friend."

"Yes, what about him?"

"Well, he's more than half way up our mountain, dearie. You two may wish to reconcile a little faster, ia all I'm saying."

"**BLAST**!"

"Agh!" Bilbo flinches, startling. "Wh-what?"

"_ENOUGH_."

"Smaug, what now? What are you on about, dearie?"

"I. AM. FINISHED."

"P-Pardon?"

"With **_THIS_**." Smaug strides forward, scooping the flailing Hobbit up and forcibly carrying him along with. "DEBACLE! We are leaving this place, Bilbo Baggins! I've had quite enough of being harried to death by dullards in my own Lair. We shall go to yours, and conduct our love affair THERE! In privacy!"

"Huh? Whoa, there! Hullo!"

"Don't wait up, Madame Hughlaurial!" Smaug orders, sweeping past her and hoisting Bilbo up over his shoulder. "Mind the Lair for me as we have agreed and I shall reward you with a cartload more biscuits e're now. And cream—only the freshest!"

"Oh, bless, dearie," Madame twinkles, scarpering out of the doorway with alacrity. "I always knew you were a good sort."

"Put me down at once, you great git!" Bilbo begs. "You can't just! Oh, fiddle-faddle, bugger it all! You're really serious, aren't you?"

"_Deathly_, Hobbit. And Madame? Do make certain to tell that loathsome TWAT of a Dwarf to go soak his head, with my compliments! Preferably in a barrel of boiling oil!"

* * *

A/N: I need state this upfront and centre: this fiction of mine is owed greatly to the inspiration of two lovely, fantastic and truly brilliant works. One is Rednavi's art of Smaug, the other is 'winter-of-discontent''s fic, 'Sacrifice's Must Be Made'. (Here? archiveofourown works / 904589) Reading back through the last, I understand at last how _exactly _that is my head-canon, should Sherlock every really become a Dragon. I suggest you run off and read that right now, as it's far better than _this_ rubbish I've wrought! And go devour Rednavi's oeuvre, which is stellar and awesome, which I can't seem to link to, and pour on the praise, as its well deserved. Many thanks! Cheers from your silly Author!


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